


taffy stuck and tongue tied

by amaanogawa



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Blowjobs, Busker!Keith AU, Falling In Love, Getting Together, M/M, Music, Pining, Porn with Feelings, Shiro waxing poetics about Keith's eyes for 11k words, allura is Tired but supportive, space analogies out the ass
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-12
Updated: 2018-12-12
Packaged: 2019-09-16 17:37:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,399
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16958517
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amaanogawa/pseuds/amaanogawa
Summary: And then, softly, “can I kiss you?”Instead of responding, Keith grabs two fistfuls of Shiro’s shirt and yanks him in, and the last thing Shiro registers before he feels Keith’s lips on his is a depthless purple containing light years of nebulae and stars and entire superclusters and everything, everything,everything.When they collide, the only way to describe the feeling iscosmic.OROn the bustling city street corner of Park and 5th, Shiro finds a man with a guitar and a voice that changes everything.





	taffy stuck and tongue tied

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sadturns](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sadturns/gifts).



> I had wanted to gift this fic to Fer for their birthday, but unfortunately I am Useless.com and couldn't finish in time but here it is nonetheless. I hope it helps make your recovery time even a tiny bit more bearable!!! ilysm and pls get better soon before I'm forced to get on a plane and nurse you back to health with my love.
> 
> the title is from the song Colorblind by Counting Crows, specifically I was listening to [this cover](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RQ1haJZsCAY&list=RDRQ1haJZsCAY&index=1) of it.

On the corner of Park and 5th, Shiro finds an angel.

Not a conventional one, by any means. Shiro isn’t exactly religious and he definitely lacks a thorough understanding of angelic lore, but all the same he’s pretty sure angels aren’t usually said to dress in oversized flannel, black skinny jeans and worn down combat boots, with whip sharp eyes and dark hair that curls up at the nape of their neck. To his limited knowledge, angels aren’t thought to appear on grimy street corners in a looming concrete cage of a city, grey with smog like someone had drawn all the colour right out from the faceless strangers that always seem to be hurrying to nowhere in particular.

But Shiro  _ is _ familiar with the saying ‘the voice of an angel’ — and on that dreary Monday morning, right as he’s bumbling along with the sea of city slickers on his way to work just as he always is in the stupor of a colourless routine, the man standing on the corner of Park and 5th opens his mouth and  _ the voice of an angel _ stops Shiro in his tracks like a wake-up call. The pedestrians behind him grumble as they part to flow around him, but Shiro barely notices in his daze —a ll he can think about, between realizing his jaw is hanging open in awe like a buffoon and the way his overpriced Starbucks coffee is burning through the paper cup and hurting his fingers, is how the song sounds vaguely familiar . He’s fairly sure he has heard it on the radio once or twice, but it never sounded like  _ this _ . Rich and smooth like liquid honey, with an edge of raspiness that leaves Shiro feeling oddly breathless right there in the middle of the damn street. 

“Oh,” he whispers to absolutely no one, because no one is listening, and it’s then that he comes to a sort of strange epiphany, within a quarter of a moment of this stranger starting his song, that there must be no shortage of things he has missed in the 45 minute commute between his too-quiet apartment and his too-shiny office, with his head down to quietly blend in with the masses. Shiro doesn’t know whether it’s the first time the stranger has chosen this specific corner to perform or whether it’s simply the first time Shiro has noticed. 

It’s hard to believe that it could possibly be the latter, when the stranger’s eyes are glowing with all the force of a celestial body and his voice sounds like it could bring back the lost with its timbre alone.

Shiro stumbles closer, uncharacteristically clumsy, and their eyes meet—gunmetal grey to amethyst purple—in a slow, earth crumbling moment that changes  _ everything _ . He isn’t exactly sure how, only that his understanding of the way the world fundamentally works has shifted on its axis. Only ever so slightly—a few degrees, a tilt of one’s head, just one single step, and suddenly all Shiro can focus on is the way the man’s fingers look impossibly ethereal as they curl over the wire strings of his acoustic guitar.

So  _ this _ is the kind of moment people lose entire pieces of themselves to—the kind of profound meeting that people feel compelled to memorialize in poem or song. Shiro gets it now, but at the very same time he isn’t even close fully wrapping his mind around the depth of it. He knows—rather than thinks—that he could chase the answer for this entire lifetime and still come away empty handed, like dragging his palms through cosmic dust in an attempt to contain it.

And so, and so.

He approaches the busker, tottering on the precipice of discovering what feels like the secrets of the universe within the breadth of a single song, pulls out a ten dollar bill from his wallet, and drops it into the open guitar bag at his feet. 

The man smiles, sort of half lidded and so incredibly soft, before his lashes flutter shut against his cheek as he continues to sing. 

Shiro scatters to pieces right in front of him.

 

\---

 

“You’ve actually been taking your lunches lately.” It’s a statement, not a question. Shiro glances up with bemused exasperation at Allura strolling through his office as if she doesn’t have anything better to do, picking up his various knick knacks and setting them back down with a hum on her lips. It’s an act, and a bad one—as the youngest ever, newly appointed CEO of Altea Medical Technologies, Shiro is acutely aware that she’s  _ always _ flooded with work, and Allura isn’t the type to skimp out on her duties just for the sake of procrastinating.

“Have you been keeping tabs on me?” He leans his cheek on his hand, raising his brows when Allura’s only response is a coy shrug. Narrowing his eyes, his voice is laced with suspicion as he takes an educated guess at who his mole is. “It was Lance, wasn’t it. The question is whether he went to you with this information voluntarily or whether you charmed it out of him. Either way, he’s fired.”

“Oh, don’t be silly. He’s just excited for you! We’ve all been telling you for years that you should put yourself out there more.” She turns on her heel and saunters over, smiling wide with her eyes crinkling at the corners as she promptly props her elbows on Shiro’s desk. “So? Who’s the lucky guy?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Shiro says with a huff, pushing the flash of amethyst that involuntarily appears in his thoughts far, far out of reach from inquiring minds. If he shows even a moment of weakness, she’ll pounce. “I just go for a walk and listen to some music. There’s a good sandwich shop around the corner, did you know? It’s called Sal’s.”

It’s not a  _ lie,  _ per se.

“Sandwiches.” With all the characters and big personalities wreaking havoc around in the company, Allura has long perfected her deadpan stare, running the pad of her thumb along the edge of her perfectly manicured nail. Shiro meets her gaze with nonchalance, the corner of his mouth threatening to quirk up and break his straight face. He may be the only person in a 200 mile radius that is capable of going head to head with her and live to tell the tale—which is why she hired him as her chief business development officer. “You? The guy who pretty much lives off of green juices and plain greek yogurt?”

“Hey, you guys are the ones that are always nagging me to get out of the office once in awhile.”

Electricity could crackle in the air between them as Allura squints at him, until she lets out a huff of indignation and crosses her arms petulantly.

“Fine, play it that way, Shirogane. If you have so much time to be  _ going on walks _ , then you should have no problem getting the Olkari report to me by 2PM.”

At this, Shiro does smirk. They’re both being childish at this point, and he should really just let her have this one. He  _ should _ . But then again, he’s never been good at being second best.

“I handed the file to Pidge this morning.”

The way her eyes narrow is  _ venomous _ .

“Very well—but that doesn’t excuse slacking on the Marmora review. I expect a progress report today.”

“No need for a progress report. I sent the completed review in yesterday evening.”

“...and the Arusian proposal?”

Shiro chuckles—he’s certainly digging his own grave here, but he really can’t help himself. Reaching into his desk drawer, he pulls out a folder and hands it over to Allura, who pinches her lips shut to hold back her laughter.

“Oh for heaven’s sake. None of these were supposed to be done for another  _ two weeks _ . When on earth do you sleep?”

His grin is laced with the sweet taste of triumph. “Anything else I can do for you, Ms.CEO?”

“No one likes a braggart, you know.” She accepts the folder with a roll of her eyes, but eventually settles on a fond smile and a sigh before heading towards the door, pausing briefly with her hand on the frame. “Well, regardless. As your friend, I’m glad you’re getting out of the office. ...no matter what it is that’s inspiring you.”

And with that the door clicks shut behind her, though through the glass Shiro can see her lingering around Lance’s desk out front to chat. Her eyes are soft as she leans in, whispering something into his ear that makes him smile. They look happy—it took years of them tiptoeing around each other for things to finally fall into place, and now they spend most of their time together giggling and blushing like teenagers. Pidge groans about it every time, sinking lower into her chair and threatening to never hang out with them past work hours ever again.

This newfound happiness is likely why Allura is so keen on Shiro finding someone. They’re alike—him and Allura, that is. Both chronic workaholics that get a little too serious and a little too deep inside their own minds, evident by how both of them have gone grey far beyond their years. Shiro recalls how much Allura used to dislike Lance when they first met—his carefree and smug attitude used to rub her in all the wrong ways, but turns out with a bit of maturity on Lance’s part, that freedom and optimism was exactly what Allura needed. Vice versa, Allura humbles Lance in such a way that could only be called unmitigated respect. It was her presence that encouraged him to be better, work harder, and take things more seriously. They work well together.

Shiro knows they meddle because they care, but he also knows that the reality of what he found is completely different from what they’re expecting. It’s true that some part of him may be enamoured by the man who sings on that street corner, but Shiro isn’t so daft as to consider it  _ romance _ . He can’t even be sure that it’s what he would want, even if the option was available to him. 

And it isn’t. It’s not even thinkable.

He hasn’t even come close to understanding what it is himself, what he  _ feels _ in the presence of a man whom he’s never even had a conversation with before, much less have the capability of explaining it to someone else. All Shiro knows for a fact is that this beautiful stranger’s voice fills him with some wholeness that he has never experienced before, and he isn’t so disciplined as to deny himself this one, small luxury.

So every day he takes a walk at lunch to Park and 5th and stays for a song or two. He drops some money into the man’s case, and eats a sandwich.

That’s all Shiro has come to expect.

Only the universe has ways of surprising you when you would least like to be surprised, and this time is no exception. 

It’s Tuesday morning, which is arguably supposed to be the most uneventful day of the week—but on this particular Tuesday, by noon Shiro has already had to put out no less than  _ three _ metaphorical fires in addition to one  _ not  _ metaphorical fire, with only enough left over energy to cast an exhausted and unimpressed glance over to where Hunk and Pidge are shrinking back with sheepish grins on their faces. He’s forced to skip lunch, barely taking the time to eat a quick yogurt cup and banana that Lance darts in to place on the edge of his desk while Shiro is busy with a phone call, sternly mouthing the words  _ make sure to eat  _ before slinking out of Shiro’s office as lithely as he came. 

By the time Shiro leaves the office, the sunset is just disappearing behind the city skyline and he’s aware of the way his back is slouching with exhaustion, which doesn’t help how sore the area around his prosthetic is. He takes his usual route to and from work, but there’s little hope of making it in time to hear even the tail end of a song—the busker is always gone by the time Shiro’s on his way home and tonight he hadn’t left until even later than that. 

But then Shiro rounds the corner and to his surprise the man comes into view, looking up with such perfect timing so that his gaze meets Shiro’s in a single heart-stuttering moment that has Shiro losing his breath like a punch to the chest.

The man  _ smiles _ when he sees Shiro, his shoulders coming down with the remnants of a sigh—like relief, or something close to it, but Shiro can’t possibly think of a reason why that would be. He comes to a stop in front of the man, vaguely aware that this would be the perfect opening to strike up a conversation, but the man’s smile is so very lovely and Shiro is so very hopeless, and—

“Do you have a request?”

The question comes as such a shock to Shiro that he’s ashamed to admit he flounders in the face of it. At first the words don’t even click in his disaster of an overworked brain and he just—he  _ stares _ . Shiro is sure there’s some hard and fast rule for how long you’re allowed to stare at a complete stranger’s face until it objectively starts to get more than a little creepy, but all the same the busker’s face remains completely passive as he waits for Shiro’s response with the patience of a saint.

So this is where Shiro meets his downfall. 

“S-sorry, what?”

The man looks amused as he raises a brow. “You’ve been dropping bills into my case every day for the past two weeks. The least I can do is take a request.”

“I, uhm—” Suddenly every single song name Shiro has ever known or will ever know has evaporated into thin air as he reaches back to rub at his neck sheepishly, if only to buy time. “I guess—do you have any original songs? I’d love to hear one.”

Clearly this hadn’t been the response the man was expecting because he visibly balks, looking off to the side in quiet consideration before hesitatingly strumming his guitar once and eventually, starts to sing.

And oh, the story he has to tell. 

He sings of searching for the lost in deep space, shifting stars with his bare hands and catching comets like baseballs, bottling moonlight and sending it through the ocean as a message for someone to find on the other side. The haunting refrain sends chills down Shiro’s spine and he’s filled with the inexplicable feeling that he’s eavesdropping on a private conversation that was never meant for his ears. This song is  _ intimate _ , painfully obvious that it was written for someone special—like a map that was hand drawn for the sole sake of finding that person. 

When it ends, Shiro lets out a breath he hadn’t known he was holding. 

“That was—my god.” Not exactly an eloquent response. Then again it isn’t humanly possible to describe the feeling of having your soul touched by words alone. At least, it’s not possible for  _ Shiro _ —never before has he been more clear that there are people out there with otherworldly gifts for injecting emotion into words. But all the same he wets his lips. Tries again. “I think that was the most beautiful thing I have ever heard.”

Still not quite close enough to the truth, but it’s a step in the right direction.

A blush blooms across the singer’s face like ink in water as his eyes widen. His fingers dance across his guitar strings skittishly without actually touching them and a quiet moment passes between the two of them right there on that bustling city corner. Finally, the man tugs on the strap of his guitar, pulling it to rest on his back as he steps forward with his hand extended.

“I’m Keith.” He says, so, so unaware that he is the most beautiful thing Shiro has ever laid eyes on.

But Shiro isn’t good with words.

“I’m Shiro. It’s nice to meet you.”

 

\---

 

Keith refuses all of Shiro’s money after that day.

_ I’m a cheap show,  _ he had said simply, the corner of his mouth quirking up into a private sort of joke. The only option then, Shiro promptly decides, is to start bringing Keith lunch every day instead—but he can’t reasonably eat and sing at the same time, so Keith packs up his guitar and they find a park bench to sit on, where they eat their lunches together and chat until Shiro’s break is over.

It’s more than a week later, seven  _ conversations over coffee and sandwiches _ before Shiro dumbly comes to the sudden realization with his nose buried in paperwork, that typically this kind of setup might be considered by some as a  _ date _ .

_ No _ , he thinks to himself, shaking his head and running a frazzled hand through his hair,  _ don’t go there. _

They aren’t dates. This isn’t a love story. It’s just —

Well. Shiro doesn’t quite know  _ what _ this is, but romance is unknown territory cast in shadows and Keith is—he’s— _ Keith _ .

There’s simply no other way to quantify it.

Keith is brilliant like a blazing star that overtakes everything in his path and Shiro is no exception —though maybe,  _ maybe _ it would be okay if that were all Keith is. But recently Shiro has had the privilege of discovering that he’s so much more than that.

There’s no doubt that Keith is absolutely luminous when he sings, considering that even the way his fingers wrap around the neck of his guitar is capable of knocking Shiro the fuck out—but the truth about Keith, Shiro has discovered, is that he goes from all consuming to stark silent in the span of a single instant, and it never fails to tear Shiro to pieces.

It’s like this—Keith sings, loud and vehement and blinding, and Shiro crumbles at his feet. 

Keith sighs, gossamer soft, the steam from his coffee cup curling around his face in wisps like an old friend, and Shiro  _ catches fire _ .

“Let me take you for dinner,” Keith says suddenly one day, brows drawn together in determination. Shiro promptly chokes on his green juice, leaning forward to spit the rest of what’s left in his mouth onto the sidewalk as he sputters and desperately sucks in deep gulps of air until his vision starts to fizzle. Distantly he can feel Keith slapping his back to help him clear his airway, and after a few moments he finally looks up with tears in his eyes.

“S-sorry?” He manages hoarsely as he clears his throat, trying his damnedest not to flush at the sight of Keith staring at him with large, concerned eyes, mouth curving into the beginnings of a frown.

“Dinner?” Keith asks again, very slowly as if he’s scared of setting Shiro off again. “You keep treating me to lunch. I want to pay you back.”

“Oh, there’s no need—” 

“I want to pay you back,” he says again, insistent. It isn’t a question, and Shiro has little resistance against the sincerity in Keith’s voice. 

Correction: Shiro has little resistance against Keith in general.

“If it means that much to you I’ll gratefully accept, but it really isn’t a big deal for me, I mean I just like—” he stops abruptly, biting his own tongue hard enough that he has to fight back a wince, “—spending time with you. Please don’t feel like money is an issue.”

The hard stare Keith gives him is nerve wracking enough that Shiro starts sweating, opting to clear his throat again as he tugs at his tie to loosen it.

“What did you say you do, again?” Keith squints, not even trying to be subtle with the way his eyes drop down to examine Shiro, perhaps properly for the first time: $600 shoes, $1700 suit, a robotic prosthetic that isn’t even out on the market yet. Shiro can almost hear the gears going haywire in Keith’s mind and tries to hold his bemusement—it’s like before this Keith hadn’t even thought to  _ consider _ those things, had just seen some tongue-tied dummy lingering around him and for some reason had thought  _ ah, yes, this is a person worth getting to know _ . 

“I work at Altea Medical Tech headquarters.” Shiro points to the looming sleek glass skyscraper in the distance and Keith’s gaze follows his arm up, lips pinching together into a tight line as he takes it all in.

“Your position?”

Shiro chuckles. “CBDO.”

There’s a long, weighted pause before Keith nods once, bringing his clasped hands to his lips.   
  
“Right. Okay. Well,” he says seriously, brows furrowing together, “how about I make you dinner at my place then?”

The words don’t process right away.

“What?” Is what Shiro finally says, eloquently.

“It’s nothing special, definitely not comparable to the CBDO of a multi-million dollar company, but—” The way Keith’s knee starts bouncing might suggest that he’s nervous but it’s Shiro who feels like he’s about to melt into a puddle of goo right onto the sidewalk. “Actually just forget it, it was a stupid idea—”

“No!” Shiro all but yells, catching a few wayward glances from passersby and startling Keith so badly he jumps. “I don’t think that way at all, Keith.”

The notion that Keith could for one second feel like Shiro wouldn’t take any chance of spending more time with him is appalling. He watches the way Keith chews on his bottom lip, like he’s suddenly intimidated by the newfound discovery that Shiro might make a hefty salary but nothing has changed from one moment to the next. Money is a privilege but it isn’t a personality. It isn’t a gift, or a virtue, or any of the things that Keith has over him in spades.

“I know.” A flush works its way onto Keith’s cheeks as he tilts his head. “I just, I’m not used to this.”

“This, being...”

Keith stares at him, an unidentifiable expression on his face as he says hesitantly, “you know. Drinking coffee with someone every day. Having them buy me lunch. Inviting them to dinner. I’m not...used to it.”

Well, if he puts it like  _ that _ , it sounds... 

“Me neither,” Shiro admits with a light chuckle. “I don’t get out of the office much.”

“What, really?” 

“Why are you surprised?”

“Because...” Keith hesitates, staring at Shiro’s face for a moment before he looks away. “You just look like the type to be sociable, that’s all.”

“Nope” The  _ p _ pops from his lips as Shiro’s mouth quirks up into a bemused smile at the thought that someone could ever think him to be a socialite when in reality, he barely spends time anywhere that isn’t his apartment, his office, or the local gym. “Definitely not me. I’m a chronic workaholic with a perfectly good apartment, but somehow I end up sleeping on the couch in my office most nights anyway. There’s a good reason my hair’s gone grey so early.”

“I thought that was just a questionable dye job.”

“Really? You think I’d dye my hair grey on purpose?”

“It’s not  _ grey _ . It’s white.”

“That’s even worse!”

They break out into simultaneous laughter, doubling over together on the park bench as their matching sandwich wrappers crinkle in their laps. This easy dance that they fall into time and time again is unfamiliar familiarity—and Shiro knows, he knows that it doesn’t make sense but it goes without saying that he stopped trying to force anything he feels about Keith into something rational since the moment he’d first heard Keith sing.

They agree on Friday night for dinner, which comes faster than Shiro is prepared for. He may or may not make the terrible decision to video call Lance hours before he’s supposed to leave, panicking in the middle of his room where it looks like a hurricane had ripped through and left nothing put piles of clothes teetering on collapsing and burying him alive.   
  
“Dude.” Lance had said, raising a pixelated brow. “Is that your Burberry suit  _ thrown haphazardly on the floor _ ? I’m coming over right now to kick your ass.”

In the end, with Lance’s help he finds himself in an eggplant purple knit sweater and a pair of snug, dark wash jeans.

Shiro wrinkles his nose as he smooths out his sweater in the mirror. “Doesn’t this make me look too much like… a dad?”   
  
“Oh yeah,  _ in the best way _ . Just watch, by the end of the night he’s gonna be calling you  _ da _ -”

“I’m hanging up.”

“Well fine.” Lance sniffs, sticking his bottom lip out. “But pick your suits up off the floor, seriously. You’re breaking my damn heart.”

Shiro shows up to Keith’s apartment building a polite 5 minutes early, a bottle of wine and a dainty box containing two slices of red velvet cake from his favourite bakery clutched in his arm as he wipes his sweaty hand on his jeans before ringing the intercom. By the time Keith buzzes him in and he climbs the stairs up to the fifth floor, Shiro has worked himself up enough that he feels strangely emotional as Keith opens his door with an orange tabby cat peeking suspiciously from behind his leg.

It goes without saying that Keith looks gorgeous and the apartment smells like him and honestly, it’s all just a little too much for Shiro’s heart.

“You look like a dad.” Is what Keith ends up saying, letting out a laugh, and Shiro can’t help but huff indignantly.

The rest of the evening falls into their usual steady, familiar rhythm. They open the wine and Keith finishes making dinner—braised short ribs with roasted root vegetables on the side—and Shiro leans against the kitchen counter, scratching Keith’s cat, Red, under the chin while applauding Keith’s culinary skills.

“It’s just following a recipe,” Keith says nonchalantly, stirring the pot with his spatula. “Anyone can do it.”

“I once almost set my microwave on fire trying to heat up canned soup, so that’s a no from me.” In Shiro’s defence, the notion that a can of soup should need directions to heat still seems absolutely ludicrous, but it’s worth mentioning that Shiro had in fact purchased  _ soup concentrate _ which apparently is different from regular canned soup because you’re supposed to add water to it. He can still vividly recall the acrid smell of burnt soup and the black smoke that had filled his apartment after he had put the bowl of thick  _ soup concentrate _ in to warm up, and had promptly decided shortly after that to never attempt to cook anything ever again. 

Dinner is delicious, which is a given considering there seems to be no shortage of ways in sight with which Keith manages to take Shiro’s breath away—from the way his cheeks redden after a single glass of wine to the way he looks when he laughs at Shiro’s unfortunate soup story, toothy and wide, far less reserved than he has ever been when they spent time together outside.  _ He’s beautiful _ , Shiro thinks in the face of it all, and still it’s useless because Shiro could think it a million times in the privacy of his own mind only to come up short in comparison to the truth.

The sky is blue, and the world is also round, and Keith is beautiful.

“What do you want to do now?” Keith asks after they’ve eaten, leaning his cheek against his hand. He is so very soft in this moment—irises looking molten blue in the dim lighting, hair falling out of its loose ponytail in wisps. 

It’s a new level of desire altogether, how desperately Shiro wants to lean across the table and kiss him. Instead, he clasps his hands together under the table just to keep them occupied, fingertips shaking.

“Will you sing for me?” He asks, and watches the way a smile blooms across Keith’s face, eyes going half lidded with amusement as if he had expected this from the beginning.

“Is that really what you want to spend your evening doing?”   
  
“I can’t think of a way I’d _ rather _ spend it.”

Wordlessly Keith stands to retrieve his guitar and they find their way to the living room where he plops cross legged to the carpet. Shiro follows suit, grabbing a throw pillow from the couch to cushion against his back as he leans against the wall. The rest of the night is spent just like this, with Keith strumming his guitar and singing any song that comes to mind and Shiro cradling his chin in his hands, gazing at Keith like the world could burn down around them and he would be none the wiser.

It’s rare for Shiro to be so sucked into a single, present moment. He spends most of his time trying to get out of his mind — throwing himself into paperwork, or hitting the gym until he’s incapable of doing anything but crawling home and collapsing into bed, it’s all for the sake of focusing on something real, rather than any of the dark, shadowy things he manages to conjure up in his thoughts.

All of that work on Shiro’s part, and Keith manages it with a single strum of his guitar. Figures.

After all, there are just some old truths of the world that are only obvious —Shiro sighs, closing his eyes and letting the sound of Keith’s voice wash over him in tides.

The sea is vast, and water is also wet, and Keith is beautiful.

 

\---

 

There’s something Shiro has been thinking about.

It’s been on his mind since the moment he met Keith, an inkling of an idea, but it isn’t until now that he really starts to mull it over.

Since that night he and Keith have gotten together on numerous occasions, usually eating dinner at one of their apartments before relaxing into the couch and turning on some terrible sci-fi movie that has them both rolling their eyes at the improbable physics. Despite the increasing amount of time they are spending with each other, their chatter continues to hover between that grey area of lighthearted and personal —because  despite how easily they get along,  _ Shiro and Keith _ as whatever unlabelled unit they’ve become is still relatively new.

Shiro notices the way Keith flinches away sometimes when their arms brush against each other, or how he changes the subject to something more easy going when the conversation progresses into dangerous territory. Shiro isn’t perturbed by it in the least. After all, he has things he isn’t quite ready to share either. Keith can share as much as he wants about himself when he’s ready, and Shiro will accept it all without question.

Knowing this, the other night Shiro had gingerly asked whether Keith would want to make singing his career, if he could.

_ That’s the dream, I guess. _ Keith had shrugged, tucking his legs under him.  _ Bartending at Lotor’s pays well and it lets me busk during the day, but I never once planned on doing it forever. I’ve sent some demos in to a few record companies and haven’t gotten any replies. Right now I’m just working on writing original songs that I’m happy with, and eventually I’ll try again. _

The thought that someone could listen to Keith’s singing and not jump at the opportunity to sign him is  _ baffling _ . Shiro has always wondered how on earth Keith could still be busking if he wanted something more, and up until now had considered the possibility that Keith didn’t necessarily want a career in entertainment. But now that Shiro knows it’s Keith’s dream to sing, he can’t help but want to do everything in his power to make it happen.

Which brings him here, standing in front of Allura’s office door, hesitating long enough that Pidge is giving him a weird look from her desk.

He sighs, lifting a hand to knock and entering when Allura calls out.

“Hey, Allura,” he says jovially, summoning an awkward smile that Allura narrows her eyes at immediately.

The way her voice cuts through the air in spite of its bluntness makes Shiro deflate. “There’s no need to butter me up, Shiro. Just ask me.” 

He’s not used to asking for favours and definitely not used to feeling like he owes someone, but if he were to trust anyone to have his back Allura would be one to top the list. And most importantly it’s for Keith’s sake so Shiro pushes on, steeling himself with a deep breath.

“I need to contact Coran.”

Judging from the way her brows furrow in confusion, whatever she was expecting him to say, it likely wasn’t that.

“Coran? Whatever for?” 

“I have a —a  _ friend _ , ” Shiro grits, mouth forming clumsily around the word, “who’s looking for an in to the industry. Can you help me out?”

To this, Allura perks up immediately, perching her chin daintily on the backs of her hands as she leans forward in her chair. The action is innocent to the eye and somehow daunting enough that Shiro has to fight the urge to take a step back.

“A friend, you say?  _ Do _ tell.”

There’s no going back now. Shiro only has one trump card and this is the time to sacrifice it.

“You might get to meet him if you can arrange a time with Coran.”

Allura smiles smugly, very much looking like the cat who got the cream as she reaches for her phone.

“I’ll text you with the details tonight.”

 

\---

 

The next day Shiro can hardly contain his excitement, so much so that he tells Lance to cancel all his meetings after lunch under the guise of a personal day.

“A personal day?” Lance had gawked, clearly hovering between the lines of impressed and terrified. “The office  _ is  _ your personal day! Who are you?!”

Shiro taps his foot impatiently while waiting for the elevator, paces during the elevator ride down to the ground floor, and all but dashes out of the building. The option to text or call was always there but Shiro had wanted to tell Keith in person, so that he could share the good news and see Keith’s smile in its wake. 

_ Get ahold of yourself, cadet _ . He reminds himself, slowing down to a brisk walk and taking a deep breath to calm down. This kind of restlessness is uncharacteristic of him, and it wouldn’t do to let things slip by his observation in his haste. It’s these kinds of impulsive urges that Shiro thought had long been beaten out of him with all the hours of gruelling training he’d endured all those years ago, but Keith’s presence finds a way to dig it out of him without even intending to.  _ Patience yields focus. _

When he rounds the corner and lays eyes on Keith, a wave of relief washes over him as he smiles, waiting until Keith’s song is finished before approaching and lifting a hand in greeting.

“Hey,” Keith says, lowering his guitar. “You’re ear-”

He sees Keith standing there, so earnest and humble, and immediately thinks  _ oh, screw patience _ .

“I set up a meeting with a friend of mine. He’s a prominent agent in the entertainment industry, and he has a lot of connections with record companies,” Shiro blurts, feeling the excitement buzzing in his throat. “We’re going to grab coffee this Saturday at the cafe next to Altea Tech, at 10AM. I told him I knew someone with incredible talent, and he’s willing to take some of your demos. Keith, this could be a huge opportunity for you!”

Maybe he’s getting ahead of himself here, but the thought of Keith gaining a larger platform to sing his songs, reaching millions with the depth of his words makes Shiro thrum with pride.

Only, it takes him awhile to cast aside his own excitement to notice that Keith doesn’t look happy. Not even close.

His mouth is pressed into a tight line, eyes widening with disbelief.

“Is this a joke?” He demands shakily after a quiet moment, brows furrowing as his fingers tighten around the neck of his guitar until the strings squeak. The tinny sound makes Keith wince but his hurt gaze never strays from Shiro’s face, communicating a thousand words that Keith is too reserved to say out loud. 

Shiro balks, taking half a step backwards purely out of reflex. It’s not like he’d been expecting  _ gratitude _ , per se —gratitude isn’t the reason why he’s doing any of this after all, but  _ anger _ is definitely something out of left field. From the scant few months that he’s known Keith, Shiro’s come to learn a few things about him: he likes his coffee black, he tends to fidget if he isn’t wearing his gloves, and he’s not the type to act like this without reason—so even if it’s something that Shiro doesn’t necessarily understand, he wants to make it right nonetheless.

“No...” he says slowly, frowning in confusion. “I’m sorry Keith, did I offend you? I just thought — ”

“I gotta go.” Keith tugs the shoulder strap over his head and his movements are robotic as he places his guitar in its bag and zips it shut with a sense of finality. 

There’s a distance between them —there has  _ always _ been a distance between the two of them but right now, right here on this bustling corner in the middle of a monstrous city Shiro has always felt too lonely in, for the first time Shiro begins to doubt whether it’s possible to cross that distance at all.

“Wait, Keith!” Shiro calls after him, but he’s already slinging the bag over his shoulder and darting down the street towards the subway. He doesn’t look back.

For a moment Shiro takes a step forward, fingers reaching out with full intent on chasing after him, but he falters as he watches Keith descend the stairs into the underground terminal. If Keith doesn’t want to talk to him, then Shiro can’t force him to, surely. 

Perhaps he crossed a line that Keith wasn’t ready for just yet, but all Shiro did was facilitate a meeting with someone who could present him with an opportunity. He had thought Keith would be happy. That’s all he had wanted.

Not—this. 

Not standing on the street corner where he’d slowly but surely fallen heads over heels for a blazing star of a man, now completely alone, left with only rejection and confusion in his chest.

The week comes and goes, and Keith doesn’t return to Park and 5th. No texts, no calls. Shiro loses track of the amount of times he thumbs over Keith’s contact only to lock his phone and throw it onto his desk with a clatter, leaning forward to let his forehead smack against the wood like a melodramatic teenaged girl. He had called after Keith, and Keith had left anyway. He had tried to do something nice for Keith in some narcissism-fueled attempt to make him happy, and only succeeded in messing everything up. Shiro wants to call him, but he thinks he’s done enough damage for now—the best thing to do is to give Keith his space, but in doing so Shiro feels like he’s being crushed in it.

This hollowness lodged in his throat that threatens to swallow him up entirely isn’t new by any means, but it’s the first time he’s felt it because of a  _ person _ .

That week, Shiro logs a record-breaking number of hours at the office. There probably hasn’t ever been a boss who was so unhappy with their employee finishing reports a month in advance than Allura, who plants her hand on her hip and places a plate of what looks like freshly made eggs benedict over prosciutto on his desk.

“Good  _ grief _ , Shiro,” she says sternly. “You’ve got Hunk panic cooking in the staffroom. Our kitchenette is nice but it’s not  _ meant _ for hand making hollandaise sauce at 8:30 in the morning.”

She stomps out after that, throwing a scornful  _ men, _ over her shoulder as she goes.

Shiro sighs, pulling the plate close and taking a ginger lick of the creamy hollandaise sauce off the back of the fork. It’s delicious, of course. Shiro makes a mental note to thank Hunk with a gift that could double as an apology for worrying him. Maybe a new Le Creuset pot, in yellow.

With a sigh, he gives himself a light slap on both cheeks before getting back to work.

Saturday rolls around and Shiro has absolutely no idea if Keith will show. He finds Allura and Coran tucked away in a booth at the back of the cafe and approaches them with a warm smile.

“Coran,” he greets. “It’s been a long time.”

“I’ll say! Really, I do wish you’d be more inclined to keep in touch.” The hug Coran gives him is warm and nostalgic. “I don’t suppose you’ve rethought my offer, have you? I could make you a  _ star _ , Shiro. You’re born for the spotlight, I swear it on my uncle’s grave!”

The fond laugh Shiro lets out is the first all week. “You really never change. Thank you for meeting me, I know you’re incredibly busy.”

“Nonsense my dear boy, we’re practically family.” They both sit, and Coran folds his hands together on the table, looking around curiously. “So, where is this young talent that you raved so much about?”

And here it is. Shiro sighs, right on the brink of preparing to explain that Keith isn’t coming, when he feels Allura reach over to grip his wrist. When he looks up, Allura is nodding her head towards the door with a sense of urgency, her lips pressed together in a giddy smile.

“The mullet is  _ certainly _ interesting,” Allura whispers with a chuckle, and Shiro jolts, glancing towards the entrance of the cafe. Sure enough Keith is standing there looking increasingly terrified but as stunning as ever in a fitted leather jacket with a motorcycle helmet tucked under his arm. He finally notices Shiro, who lifts his hand in an awkward wave, and he eyes widen as if he hadn’t been expecting to find Shiro right where he said he’d be.

“Hey, Keith,” Shiro says, sliding further into the booth to make room for him. “This is Allura and Coran. Allura, Coran, this is Keith.”

“ _ Such _ a pleasure to finally meet you.” Allura isn’t pulling any stops, laying on the charm thickly as she reaches out a hand to shake, and Shiro narrows his eyes at her, mouthing a stern  _ cut it out _ . She dismisses it with a flick of her fingers.

The rest of the introductions go smoothly—Keith answers a few of Coran’s questions, simple things like when he’d first started making music and what genre he most identifies with, before sliding over a USB stick containing some of his original songs. Coran promises to take a listen and get back to Keith by the end of the week. 

“I don’t usually do this, but I’ve never heard Shiro speak so highly about anyone before,” Coran chortles, twisting the end of his moustache as he adds a sly, “or so  _ enthusiastically _ .”

Shiro lets out a rough cough, covering his face with a hand to hide the fact that he’s gone scarlet. “Oka-ay, that’s enough about that. Keith, would you like something to drink?”

They sip at their coffees and make pleasant small talk, but the few times Shiro dares to glance over at Keith, he can’t help but notice that Keith is acting very peculiar—his shoulders are stiff as a board and he has the strangest expression on his face, almost like a deer in headlights. Shiro wants to ask if he’s okay, fingers twitching on the table on the precipice of reaching out to lay a comforting hand on Keith’s shoulder, before deciding against it at the last moment. But when after an hour he can feel the tension rolling off of Keith in tidal waves, he decides to call it a day.

“Well, Coran, thank you again for meeting us today,” he says warmly, smiling as Coran reaches over to pat the back of his hand fondly.

“You’ve always been far too polite, you know.” He turns to Keith with a twinkle in his eye. “Look after this one for me, will you? He tends to forget to eat when he gets lost in all that paperwork of his.”

Keith seems to speak on instinct. “I know,” he says quickly, before drawing back like he’d surprised himself. “Thank you for the opportunity. I can’t tell you how much I appreciate your time.”

The knowing smile Allura and Coran share makes Shiro want to groan inwardly.

“Any  _ friend _ of Shiro’s is a friend of ours.” Allura leans her chin on her hand, glancing at Shiro cheekily. “Don’t be a stranger now, Keith. You should visit Altea Tech sometime. Shiro can show you around.”

She thinks she’s sneaky.

They exit the cafe with an air of tension hovering over them, and Shiro clears his throat as he stuffs his hands into his pockets.

“Well, uh—”

“Can I come over?” Keith says suddenly, looking properly into Shiro’s eyes for what feels like the first time in ages.

Shiro’s heart pounds in his chest hard enough that he can feel his own pulse in his throat. “Yea, of course,” he says, softly. “Meet you back at my place, then?”

They arrive separately, Shiro in his car and Keith on his motorcycle, and the atmosphere is stifling as they ride the elevator up to his floor. It has never been like this between them before—from the start Keith has always felt like an old friend that Shiro was reuniting with after a long time and not someone he had only just met. This awkward silence, this uncertainty buzzing in every interaction makes Shiro’s chest ache and he longs to go back to what they had. But it’s his fault that things aren’t right between them. He had pushed too far, too fast, and the only thing he can do is hope that if he apologizes properly, Keith can feel how sincere he is and forgive him.

Shiro unlocks the door and lets both of them in, bending over to untie his shoelaces. The door has barely closed behind him before Keith is whirling around with wide eyes.

“I’m sorry,” he blurts out, right there in the foyer. “I fucked up, and I’m sorry.”

Well, that’s not what Shiro had expected.

“Wait,  _ what _ ?“ Shiro stammers. “Why would you— _ I’m _ the one who should be sorry.”

Keith balks, jaw dropping open in disbelief. “What do  _ you _ have to be sorry about?”

“I overstepped. It wasn’t my place.” Guilt swirls in the pit of Shiro’s stomach as he recalls how Keith had reacted, the way Keith’s voice had  _ trembled _ , and it’s all he can do to lower his head with a slow shake. “I should have asked you about it first, but all I was thinking about was what I could do to help you, and I got too ahead of myself. It wasn’t right. I should have known you wouldn’t want an intrusion of your privacy like that.”

The way Keith is staring at him makes him feel like he’s catching fire.

“Shiro,” Keith says finally, “you’re kidding me, right?”

“No, I’m serious. I really am sorry, Keith—”

Before he can finish, Keith steps forward and places his hand over Shiro’s mouth.

“Shut up,” he says, brows drawing together. At this distance Shiro can see every speckle of platinum gold in his eyes and it’s too much, too close—Shiro can’t help but take a step back until his back hits the door but Keith goes with him, cornering him with nothing but a single hand and the weight of his gaze.

Keith smells like cinnamon candy and dark roast coffee and it’s only now, standing barely inches apart, that Shiro notices the light remnants of a scar over his right cheek. He wants to trace it with his fingertips, connect the beauty marks just visible under the collar of Keith’s leather jacket like constellations, count the stars on Keith’s skin like a prayer.

He falls, head first, into nothing but amethyst purple and the feeling of callused fingers against his lips.

“I panicked,” Keith murmurs, holding Shiro’s stare. “I panicked because you’re the best thing that has ever happened to me and I’ve never felt anything like this before. Not even close. You showed up one day, and then you came back every day after that. You  _ came back _ .”

The tremor in Keith’s voice is raw, and it’s bare, and Shiro can feel Keith’s fingertips shaking against his own skin.

“Do you even know? Do you realize how  _ good _ you are? You went out of your way to help me with my career, presented me with an opportunity greater than I could have ever imagined only to have it thrown back in your face without any explanation and your first reaction is to apologize to me? Are you kidding me, Shiro? You were too good to be true. All of this is too good to be true, so I panicked. I ran.”

Slowly, gingerly, Shiro wraps a hand around Keith’s wrist without a word, pulling Keith’s hand away from his mouth before lowering it to their sides without letting go.

“No one has ever stuck their neck out for me like that.” Keith looks  _ small _ in this moment, so very defenseless as he twines his fingers with Shiro’s. “That song—the one that you first requested—I wrote that for my mom. She left so early I can’t even remember her face, and my dad died when I was a kid. I’ve been by myself ever since.

“I don’t know—” His breath hitches, breaking Shiro’s heart in one fell swoop as he grips Shiro’s hand so hard his knuckles crack. “I don’t know how to do this.”

Emotion wells up in Shiro’s throat as he tries to process everything that was just presented to him. It’s unbelievable, absolutely mind-boggling that Keith could ever possibly think he doesn’t deserve everything good this world has to offer. Not when he’s  _ Keith _ , kind, humble, brave, funny, and talented, among a list of other things that Shiro could go on about for days. 

“Oh, Keith,” Shiro murmurs, reaching up to brush a thumb across the nearly invisible scar on Keith’s cheek just like he had wanted to do moments ago. “You have no idea, do you? There doesn’t exist a single world in which you don’t deserve everything. Don’t you get it? You  _ are _ everything.”

And then, softly, “can I kiss you?”

Instead of responding, Keith grabs two fistfuls of Shiro’s shirt and yanks him in, and the last thing Shiro registers before he feels Keith’s lips on his is a depthless purple containing light years of nebulae and stars and entire superclusters and everything, everything,  _ everything _ .

When they collide, the only way to describe the feeling is  _ cosmic _ .

He savours how desperate Keith feels against him, his fingers scrabbling on Shiro’s chest, and Keith pulls and Shiro goes, pressing impossibly closer as they stumble backwards into a shelf, rattling everything on its surface. It gives Shiro the leverage to slot a thigh between Keith’s legs, relishing in the way Keith shudders at his touch.

“I want you,” Keith gasps, fingertips trailing embers down Shiro’s neck, “Shiro, I—”

They’ve tottered around this for  _ months _ and now they’re hurtling towards the ground so fast they might burn up in the atmosphere. Shiro slides his hands to the bottom of Keith’s thighs and lifts, kissing Keith hard as he marches them towards his bedroom guided by memory alone. They topple into bed, and Keith barely takes a breath before his fingers are closing around the buttons of Shiro’s button-up shirt.

“ _ Buttons _ . Of all things to wear of course you’re wearing a shirt with a million  _ buttons _ .”

It isn’t like Keith to whine. Shiro laughs against his lips, reaching down with intent to help until Keith bats his hands away with a scowl.

“You don’t like my shirt?”

“I love your shirt. But right now it’s a pain in my ass when I’d much rather have  _ something else _ .”

If Keith hears the way Shiro chokes on his own spit he ignores it, unclasping the last button and pushing Shiro’s shirt off his shoulders impatiently. 

“Shiro—” Keith breathes, immediately nipping down the exposed skin of his shoulder. His fingers are cold where they dip into the lines of Shiro’s abdomen, exploring and feeling for the first time, and Shiro can’t help but shiver under his touch. If it were possible he would want Keith’s fingerprints to embed themselves into his skin, if it meant he could remember this moment in all its clarity. 

He tugs Keith’s simple black t-shirt over his head, hand immediately going to smooth down the fluffy locks of hair that the shirt ruffles. Keith is luminous in his arms, tight coils of muscle under sun-kissed skin dotted with beauty marks that Shiro traces with wonder, one by one by one. 

“You’re beautiful,” Shiro says, and watches, awe-struck, as Keith promptly flushes all the way down to his chest.

Like watercolour. Like a sunset. Like galaxies worlds away from here.

If Shiro didn’t know better, he’d almost think that Keith kisses him more for the sake of shutting him up than for any other reason, but it doesn’t change the fact that Shiro will take anything that Keith is willing to give him. He kisses back, open mouthed and pliable, shuddering at the feeling of Keith’s tongue against his own.

It’s hard to believe that this is real, that Keith is really in his arms right now, but Shiro knows he couldn’t dream of anything that feels this right, this  _ good _ , with his imagination alone even if he tried.

When Shiro runs curious fingers along the waistband of Keith’s jeans, the groan that he coaxes out of Keith’s mouth is as pretty a song as he’s ever heard.

“Please,” Keith says, eyes ablaze, and Shiro surrenders.

He can only ever surrender.

It’s simple, then, to make quick work of Keith’s jeans—a task that’s more arduous than one would imagine because Keith likes his clothes practically painted on him, but a task so worth the effort. Shiro allows himself a single moment to admire how Keith looks splayed out underneath him and damn near loses his breath.

Grass is green, and sugar is also sweet, and Keith is beautiful.

Before Keith can scowl at him for staring too long Shiro moves on, sliding down so his knees touch the floor as he yanks Keith towards him, lifting Keith’s thighs over his shoulders. He leans forward to plant a kiss on Keith’s hipbone, scraping his teeth over Keith’s skin and sucking hard enough that he knows a mark will be left behind.

“Shiro, Shiro—“ Keith squirms as he reaches down to tangle his fingers in Shiro’s hair. “C’mon, I—”

“Patience, baby.” The term of endearment is an impulse, one that has Keith tensing up like a bowstring, and Shiro makes a note to use it to his advantage. “I’ll take care of you. Just trust me.”

He takes Keith’s cock into his hand, so red-tipped and pretty, and watches as Keith’s lashes flutter shut against his cheek.

When he sucks Keith into his mouth, the whines that spill out from between Keith’s lips are enough to make Shiro ache with desire. Keith is salt skin on his tongue, fire under his fingertips, moonlight in his eyes, and Shiro wants, wants, wants.

“Ah!” Keith keens, barely bucking up into Shiro’s mouth before Shiro pins his hip down with one hand. He hollows out his cheeks, flattening his tongue against the underside of Keith’s cock as he bobs his head, swirling his tongue against the tip and dipping back down. All of Keith’s reactions are robbing Shiro of his composure. He can’t remember ever feeling this desperate, this strung out, especially not while sucking someone else off.

He finds a rhythm, taking Keith into his mouth again and again until his jaw is sore and saliva has dribbled all over his fingers and Keith’s back is all but curving off of the bed.

It’s pure chance that Shiro peers up just in time to see Keith come with a cry, eyes squeezed shut with his fingers tangled in the sheets and so very gorgeous. Shiro swallows obediently, pulling off and wiping his mouth on the back of his arm. 

“Shiro, please,” There was no way Shiro could know before tonight that Keith was capable of  _ mewling _ , nor the devastating effect it could have on him. “I want it, want you—”

There’s no need for Keith to beg, because Shiro would give him anything he wants—but it’s a secret that he’ll take with him to the grave. He pulls the lube from his nightstand drawer and sits on the bed with his legs over the edge, barely needing to say a word before Keith is clamouring into his lap like it’s a throne.

And it is, oh god, it is.

“I’ve already made you cum once and you’re still this desperate for it.” Shiro clicks his tongue, smirking at the way Keith flushes. “What am I going to do with you?”

“I swear to god—”

Whatever Keith was about to say is cut off in a gasp as Shiro rubs a finger coated in cold lube against his hole, unable to hold back the way his smirk turns a little wicked. “Hm? What was that, baby?”

Shiro collects each of Keith’s little gasps and moans like keepsakes as he sinks a finger into Keith, so deliciously tight, and pulls out gently before pumping it back in. He has no idea how long it’s been for Keith, but the last thing Shiro wants to do is hurt him.

“Okay, baby?”

“Nn, good,” Keith murmurs, drawing his arms around Shiro’s neck. “S’good,  _ Takashi _ ,”

It’s the first time Keith has ever used his first name. It has more of an effect than Shiro could ever have imagined. He groans, tugging Keith forward with a hand on the nape of his neck, licking into his mouth and catching him in a bruising kiss.

He preps Keith lovingly, stretching him with one finger, then two, then three, torturously slow until Keith is writhing on his hand, Shiro’s name pouring like a waterfall from his lips and Shiro swallows them one by one as he kisses Keith quiet.

It’s a sweet relief to finally unbutton his pants and pull his cock out, and then a quick process to roll on a condom, dribbling a generous amount of lube on it before guiding his hand to Keith’s hips. He hardly needs the guidance—Keith rises up on his thighs, reaching down to line Shiro’s cock up properly before he  _ sits _ , taking Shiro to the hilt. Shiro hisses at the sudden stimulation, nails digging into Keith’s waist, and allows himself to be pushed down so that Keith has a palm on his chest and satisfaction in his eyes.

“Give me a minute,” he breathes. “You’re fucking big.”

Shiro laughs shakily at that, trying his hardest to resist the urge to buck up into Keith’s inviting heat. It takes an iron will, but after a scant moment Keith shoulders relax as he lifts his hips and drops them back down, thighs tensing with the effort, and Shiro swears his heart is going to give out on him.

“You feel so good,” he gasps, shift his hips to test the angles until one has Keith keening as he rides Shiro  _ hard _ , cock full and bobbing against his stomach with every bounce. “You’re so gorgeous for me, baby—”

Whatever else comes spilling out of his mouth is lost to him as Keith wrecks himself on Shiro’s cock, moving his hips like he’s fully intending on making a show of it until Shiro can feel his thighs shaking with exertion. Keith takes, and he takes, biting his bottom lip until it turns red, his entire body going rigid, and Shiro loses his mind.

He surges up, grabbing Keith’s ass with both hands and bucks his hips to the same rhythm that he pull Keith's hips down, and Keith sobs into Shiro’s neck.

“‘kashi, I’m—” His moan is breaking around the edges, crumbling to pieces, shameless in its need. “ _ Ah _ ! Fuck—”

Keith comes for the second time, sinking his teeth into the meat of Shiro’s shoulder, and Shiro hisses as he drags his fingernails down Keith’s back, no doubt leaving angry red streaks behind. He feels the way Keith goes pliant in his arms and flips them around in a single motion so that Keith is on his back. 

It should be impossible to feel this good, this  _ whole _ , with the way his vision blurs around the edges as he chases his own release until Keith is crying out from oversensitivity.

When he comes, he thinks he sees stars.

He collapses onto the bed next to Keith, and they lie next to each other breathing heavily.

“Jesus.” Keith croaks, reaching over to tangle his fingers in Shiro’s.

Shiro laughs. “Shiro is fine, really.”

The way Keith groans only makes Shiro laugh harder. He rolls over to face Keith, smiling at the way his cheeks are flushed, and brushes them with the backs of his fingers. Keith leans into his touch, hair damp with sweat and sticking up every which way and still, Shiro thinks he’s absolutely breathtaking.

“I’m starving,” Keith says, shimmying to perch his arms on Shiro’s chest. “You got anything to eat?”

“I have...yogurt?” He receives an unimpressed stare in response, and tries again. “We can order pizza?”

This suggestion is met with a much more positive reaction, and he earns a kiss for his efforts as Keith slides off of the bed and pads towards the bathroom to get cleaned up. He reaches the door frame before glancing back, brows raising.

“You coming?”

Shiro grins, rising up to follow.

They spend the rest of the day doing nothing in particular, eating pizza and watching movies and talking until the sun goes down.

At one point Keith wanders towards the piano that’s shoved up against the corner of the living room. Shiro used to play as a child and had purchased it mostly out of nostalgia, but unfortunately it spends most of its time under the dusty cover, unused.

“Will you listen?” Keith asks, looking unsure for the first time since he had yanked Shiro in to kiss him. 

It’s a silly question. Shiro wonders how long it will take for Keith to realize that there is nothing Keith could possibly want to give him that Shiro wouldn’t want. He takes a seat next to Keith on the piano bench, close enough to feel Keith’s warmth with enough distance that he doesn’t restrict Keith’s movement.

Keith weaves a melody with his fingertips, and it’s a song that Shiro hasn’t ever heard him play before. The feeling is different with this one, more hopeful than anything he’s ever played for Shiro in the past. Soft, like daylight. Warm, like the sun.

When he sings, his voice wraps around each word like a treasure, hugging them carefully to his soul before letting them free. He sings of liquid sundrops melting into the sky, bringing life to the cracked earth where they fall, of wildflowers blooming in their wake. He sings of a lone comet pulled into the sun’s orbit, doomed to chase after it into the next hundred years never to get close enough for so much as a chaste kiss. When Keith sings, Shiro sucks in a breath, knowing that this song is Keith’s heart.

_ Oh _ , Shiro realizes in a single dizzying moment,  _ this is a love song _ . 

The song comes to an end and Shiro turns, meeting Keith’s eyes. They’re vulnerable right now, and so achingly honest.

“I wrote it about you,” he murmurs. 

Shiro cradles Keith’s cheek in his hand and leans forward to kiss him, soft. Shiro kisses him, and kisses him, and kisses him.

He kisses him, and it isn’t enough. 

He could kiss Keith for the next hundred years, chase his lips for millennia to come, and it will never be enough.

Before he knows it the world has gone dark outside and they’re laying in bed on their sides, facing each other, faces illuminated only by the faint glow of the night sky. Keith is in the middle of saying something when he has to fight back a yawn, and Shiro smiles at how obviously he’s struggling to stay awake.

“Stay the night,” Shiro whispers, tracing idle circles into Keith’s hipbone with his thumb. “Stay with me.”

Keith’s lashes flutter shut and his voice comes out as a soft mumble. “Okay.”

Within moments his breathing steadies. If the dark circles under his eyes are anything to go by, Shiro’s willing to bet that he hasn’t slept well all week. 

That would make two of them, at least.

“Keith?” Shiro whispers, eyes going half lidded when he’s met with silence.

It’s only then that he reaches out with trembling fingers, daring to brush a stray lock of hair out of Keith’s face. Silvery moonlight spills in from the windows, bathing Keith in an ethereal glow that casts long shadows over his eyelashes as his chest rises and falls peacefully. Shiro has never seen Keith so vulnerable before—he’s always alert, always observant, so quiet in the most perceptive of ways. But at the end of the day, it doesn’t matter whether Keith is standing on a dirty, crowded city street corner with a guitar in hand, or whether he’s curled up fast asleep in Shiro’s bed. He is still the most beautiful sight Shiro has ever seen.

_ Will _ , ever see.

Shiro isn’t exactly religious. He doesn’t believe in any specific god or go to church or really even spend that much time thinking about it —but what he does know is that there are billions of galaxies light years beyond their own, and in each galaxy there exist trillions of stars, and space is constantly expanding ever outwards, farther and farther than human eyes will ever witness. The universe is grand in its power, creating phenomena that will never be quantifiable by mathematics that any piece of technology is capable of processing.

There are billions of galaxies housing trillions of stars and within one of those galaxies, on a miniscule planet warmed by one of those stars, he is lying here with Keith and Shiro is so in love with him. 

He is not religious but he has to believe in something greater than himself—because the universe is grand and he is just one tiny, insignificant human who can’t explain why tears come to his eyes when he watches the man he loves breathe out in his sleep.

And maybe if Shiro were a better person he would simply treasure this one fleeting pause in time, keep it in his chest for years to come and accept that it is enough for him to have laid here in this moment. But as Shiro’s eyelids grow heavy and his vision of Keith’s face blurs from stray tears and sleep, he wonders if it’s okay for him to ask for more if it’s shielded within the void of the night.

_ I know _ —he thinks, sending his confession out to the stars or the moon or whatever is listening— _ I know that I could never deserve him. I know he is an entity far greater than anything I can ever imagine. I know that he is soft and I am jagged and he is celestial and I will always be chained to the concrete. I know he doesn’t belong here. _

_ But please, _ Shiro thinks, blinking tears from his eyes as he turns to press his face into the pillow, _ let him be here _ .

_ Please, let him be mine. _

**Author's Note:**

> [my tumblr](https://amaanogawa.tumblr.com) / [twitter](https://twitter.com/amaanogawa_)
> 
> i hope this will tide everyone over until the 14th! see you all in therapy!


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